


Mmm, Pie

by fourteenlines



Category: Farscape
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22265434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourteenlines/pseuds/fourteenlines
Summary: Turns out "emergency room" translated pretty well after all.
Relationships: John Crichton/Aeryn Sun
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Mmm, Pie

**Author's Note:**

> Babyfic. You heard it here first.
> 
> Originally posted 6/10/2005 to Farscape Friday. Written for the Fic in a Barrel challenge. My fic-in-a-barrel words were _book, sympathy, pie, emergency room._

"Ow!"

"Stop being such a pantry-ass."

" _Pansy_ -ass."

"Pansy-ass, then."

"I am NOT a pansy-ass. That frelling HURT."

Aeryn rolled her eyes and tightened her grip under his arms. She was in the complicated process of dragging him from one end of the crowded marketplace, where they had until very recently been enjoying a tasty meal, to the other end of the marketplace. Where some confused -- okay, fine, _amused_ \-- locals assured them that there was a first aid station of some kind.

Turns out "emergency room" translated pretty well after all. Or maybe they were clued in by the way he was hobbling around the refreshment stall shouting obscenities in three different languages, none of which were spoken by anyone on this side of the galaxy.

"I think it might be broken," John said piteously.

"Of course it's broken," Aeryn said, her voice short on patience and long on venom. "You were acting like a dreznit, and this is what you get for it."

"It was _good_ pie, Aeryn. I mean, _really_ good pie. Like mom used to make, and considering that this is remarkable on two levels -- the first of which is that my mother is _dead_ , and the second of which is that no one but me even knows what a peach _is_ \-- I didn't think there was any harm in celebrating." He stumbled over a small child and more pain shot up his leg. "I may have gotten a little carried away."

"You fell off the table and caught your foot in the trough."

"It was a slippery table! And what kind of piece of dren table has a _hole_ in the _middle_?"

"It's a trash chute, John. To prevent the market from becoming cluttered with undisposed refuse. I can't believe that after this many cycles you _still_ can't figure out how the universe works! You're worse than D'Argo!"

She gave a particularly rough tug to his underarms, and John pitched forward just that much more. Which put him about on an eye-level with Little D, wrapped tight in a bundle around Aeryn's chest, his head pillowed cozily on one of her breasts.

D stared at him with the kind of calm, beneficent seriousness usually only found in zen masters. He also sort of looked like he was choosing not to rolling his eyes, and not at all like this was mainly because he didn't have the fine motor skills to roll his eyes yet.

Jesus, only six months old and he was already embarrassing his kid. Aeryn was right, the boy _was_ smarter than he was.

They finally made it to the first aid stand, where a smelly orange alien in (no joke) a white coat set his ankle while John attempted, though not very well, to keep from screaming like a girl. He paid their fee, signed their book with the name "Bob Denver," and was on his way. They gave him a gnarly old stick to use in order to hobble back to the transport pod, and Aeryn refused to help him at all.

Little D continued unperturbed.


End file.
